


Anyway, Here's Wonderwall

by nerddowell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Busker!Renly, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Music, Trans Character, Trans Loras Tyrell, Trans Male Character, yet again the Tyrells are from Bath because Reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 18:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12847344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: I wrote this for a tumblr thing and I did it in about two hours so if there are any mistakes I'm sorry they're all mine. But also I'm feeling shitty and dysphoric about myself right now (I am also a trans man) so I wrote trans!Loras to cheer myself up. Enjoy.





	Anyway, Here's Wonderwall

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a tumblr thing and I did it in about two hours so if there are any mistakes I'm sorry they're all mine. But also I'm feeling shitty and dysphoric about myself right now (I am also a trans man) so I wrote trans!Loras to cheer myself up. Enjoy.

“Loras, for God’s sake, will you sit still for two seconds?” Margaery snapped, tongue poking out between her teeth as she pressed the skin of her brother’s left ass cheek taut and gets the needle ready with her free hand. Of all the positions Loras had been in on his sister’s couch, most of them involved a blanket (or several) and tubs of Ben and Jerry’s whilst there were shitty romcoms on the tv; lying flat on the couch, jeans and boxers around his ankles, with Margaery’s positively rude Sphinx cat licking his balls right next to Loras’ face whilst his owner wielded a syringe was not one he was used to. Still, needs must and he still hadn’t learned how to give himself his own shots properly (in Margaery’s opinion; Loras was pretty sure that all he needed to do was make sure there was no air in the needle and then jam it into whichever leg muscle was nearest), so here he was all the same.

“Do I have to get the restraints out?” Margaery asked in exasperation as he wriggled again, trying to crane his neck over his shoulder to see what the holdup was. She pushed his head back down firmly, told him to take a deep breath and count to three, and on the count of one jabbed him sharply with the needle and pushed the plunger down, ignoring his yelp.

“Remind me why I come to you for this again?”

“Because you’re a baby who can’t do it himself, and because you decided a paediatric physiotherapist was the same thing as a nurse and thus deemed me qualified to give you your T injections every month. Now pull your jeans back up before I have to stare at your arse any longer.”

“I’ll have you know that Sansa thinks it’s a beautiful arse,” Loras responded, entirely childishly, but shifted around to pull his jeans back up all the same, buttoning his fly closed and smoothing his rumpled t-shirt.

“Loras, Sansa used to think _Joffrey_ had a gorgeous arse,” Margaery told him, bursting his bubble. “Thankfully the reality check hit, and since she developed a desire to delve into our gene pool, she made the sensible decision to pick me, anyway.” She chucked the cat under its bald chin (God, Loras hated that cat) as she went back into the kitchen to pick up her work scrubs. The cat hissed at Loras, who hissed back louder and got up, picking up his bag from the foot of the couch and slinging it over his shoulder.

“Don’t forget, dinner at Mum and Dad’s on Saturday,” Margaery told him as she let them both out, “and Grandma’s going to be bringing the Spanish Inquisition.”

“The usual, then.”

“The usual,” Margaery agreed.

 

* * *

 

The gym was busy when Loras got there, the usual after-work Monday rush filling the weights room. He decided to go for a swim instead, pulling his trunks out of his bag and heading for the men’s changing rooms. Even now, when he knew that his jawline was sharper and his voice lower, his chest flat thanks to a surgeon in Florida and several thousand pounds of his parents’ money last summer, he was nervous every time he stepped over the threshold. He’d been a swimmer in school, when he and Margaery were pupils at one of London’s most prestigious all-girls schools, and he’d captained not only the swim team but the rugby and fencing as well. And at least now he didn’t have to wear the logo-emblazoned one-piece that had identified him not only as a student of Septa Eglantine’s, but as a girl.

Instead he now stood at the edge of the diving platform in a pair of loose-fitting board shorts, watching the water sparkle with the reflection of the pool lights in gentle waves, and executed a perfect backward dive into the pool (showing off only a little). He set off to complete his standard thirty laps, alternating strokes to feel the pull in his muscles, and allowed everything else to flow from his mind.

 

* * *

 

He left the gym at ten, arms and back sore from his lifting session after the swim, flushed and still a little sweaty despite his long shower and the freezing November air. There was a busker performing in the centre of the train station atrium where he always picked up his post-gym Starbucks (the only one within a three-tube-stop radius still open that late at night) who was singing something Loras vaguely recognised from one of Garlan’s short-lived rock star phases in his late teens. He was a young man maybe a couple of years older than Loras himself, with a beard and long dark hair tied back in a messy bun, a thick green parka and skinny jeans, a pair of Doc Martens half-laced on his feet. Loras immediately dismissed him as yet another street hipster until the guy looked up, his eyes immediately meeting Loras’ from across the atrium, the most electric blue Loras had ever seen.

He needed that coffee more than ever.

Satin was behind the bar as usual, having Loras’ black coffee ready for him as per usual, and held out his hand for the handful of change Loras passed him as he continued to clean behind the bar. Loras sat on a stool by the window and sipped pensively at his coffee, watching the busker through the window.

“He’s not bad,” Satin said, leaning over the bar to watch the guy with Loras. “He did Wonderwall earlier, must have made about thirty quid from the amount of people I saw dropping coins and notes in his case.”

“Wonderwall’s such a cliché,” Loras scoffed, taking another gulp of his coffee. “Every idiot with a guitar knows how to play Wonderwall _._ If he played it on the accordion, I might be impressed.”

“This is why you’re still single,” Satin told him, rolling his eyes. “Your standards are way too high.”

 

* * *

 

The busker was there again the night after, this time with his hair loose and having exchanged last night’s beaten up black Docs for a bright yellow patent pair as he strummed the intro to Eric Clapton’s Layla. Loras’ ears perked up, making Satin smirk from behind the bar. Layla was one of Loras’ father’s favourite songs, and Mace could often be heard humming it (tone deafly) around the house whilst pottering about doing whatever middle aged fathers did. The busker’s voice was deep and husky, perfect for the bluesy, pained tone of the song, and Loras listened appreciatively this time, even palming a pound coin in his pocket as he debated dropping it into the guy’s case. He had almost made up his mind to go and give it to him when the guy put down his guitar and headed towards the café, pushing the door open and nearly knocking Loras off his stool as he breezed past.

“God, sorry,” he said, full of apologies, and Loras nearly let him get away with it.

Nearly.

“Next time just… watch where you’re going, yeah?”

“Sure,” the guy said, a little colder this time, and then again, “I’m sorry.” He moved on past Loras to the counter, where Satin handed him a cup full of water and leant over the bar to give him air-kisses on either cheek.

“Renly!”

“Hi,” the busker – Renly, presumably – grinned, slapping Satin on the back. He was a good foot taller than Loras had realised, standing head and shoulders above the diminutive barista, despite the extra inch or two that Satin’s wildly curly black hair gave him in height. His speaking voice was smooth, deeper than he sang, and annoyingly charming. Loras was regretting speaking so sharply to him, so decided to make it up to him by passing him the pound coin after all.

“Here. You’re… good.”

“That was almost a compliment,” Renly said, raising one eyebrow slightly, and grinned. “I am sorry for barging into you like that. I’m terrible for that, it comes with the height. I’ve got more arms and legs than I know what to do with.”

“Really? Where do you keep the other ones?” Loras asked, and Renly laughed.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

* * *

 

It became something of a habit after a while. Go to the gym in the evening, see Renly by the stairs busking, drop as much change as Loras had in his pockets into his case and listen to a couple of songs before boarding the train. Over the past week he’d heard not only Layla, but 20 Flight Rock, I Fought the Law, Drift Away and Maggie May. At this point he was pretty tempted to ask Renly whether he knew how to play anything from the current decade, but when he left the Starbucks on Friday with Margaery, making their way to Paddington to get the train to Bath for their parents’ dinner party, he was playing Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People.

Margaery was swaying along as they passed by, soy matcha latte in hand, and gave him a brilliant smile.

“I love this song!” She dropped a fiver into the case. Renly was staring at her, still singing, but with a glazed look in his eyes that Loras recognised all too well. Lots of people looked at his sister like that, at her delicate heart-shaped face and cupid’s-bow lips he had used to share. A lot of the time, to see Margaery was to love her instantly. It didn’t usually make him feel as though his stomach was tied in knots, though.

He tugged on her hand and tried to drag her down the steps, but she resisted, hanging back to listen to the music.

“Margaery, we’re going to miss the train–”

“So what? They come every five minutes. Come on, this is my favourite song, and listen, he’s really good–”

“ _Margaery_ ,” Loras said desperately, his face pleading, “Mum. Dad. Engagement dinner. Come on.”

“Spoilsport,” she pouted, but followed him down the stairs with only a brief backward glance at Renly, whose eyes Loras could feel trailing after them until they turned the corner out of his sight.

 

* * *

 

The dinner was something of a disaster, at least in Loras’ opinion. Everyone else had a wonderful time – Margaery and Sansa were nauseatingly sweet together, Margaery presenting her girlfriend with the most enormous bunch of flowers she could possibly find when they met up at Paddington and then snuggling on the couch all weekend like teenagers; Garlan and Leonette announcing their news, being toasted with a round of champagne, and Margaery, Sansa and Mum fawning over the ring whilst Dad slapped Garlan on the back and offered blustering congratulations. Grandma, of course, never stopped staring at Loras, who had only picked at his grilled salmon and kept shooting both happy couples pained looks, drowning himself in champagne. He staggered a little when he got up to clear his plate at the end of the dinner, and then was cornered by Grandma in the kitchen when she shut everyone else out and fixed him with a penetrating Yoda-like expression whilst leaning on her cane.

“Well? Out with it.”

“Out with what?”

“Whatever’s given you a face like a slapped backside all evening,” Grandma said. Her rolling Somerset tones always put people falsely at ease, which was the way she liked it; Loras, however, was rarely taken in, and had been preparing for this uncomfortable conversation all night.

“Nothing, Grandma.”

“Nonsense,” she said sharply, eyeing him again, “you’ve barely touched your food, and given that we usually have to serve it to you all but in a nosebag that’s signage enough that something’s up. Now spill the beans, or else I shall have to get it out of you another way.”

“It’s nothing, Grandma, honestly.”

“Boy trouble, is it?”

He sighed, and that seemed to be answer enough.

“Well, what on earth are you getting so upset about? If he’s any brains in his head he’ll know that he won’t find better, although he might find different.”

“But what if he likes different, Grandma? The normal sort of different, instead of my sort of different?”

“Loras,” his grandmother said, in a tone that implied she couldn’t believe he was this stupid, “you are normal, no matter what you seem to believe. It’s been around since time immemorial and will continue to be so for time immemorial to come.” She rolled her eyes. “Now stop fretting and fetch the chocolate mousse, it’s time for pudding and God knows we’ve waited long enough already.”

Loras fetched the mousse as ordered and delivered it back to the table, where his mother gave him an extra large helping and Grandma pushed her glass of brandy towards him to wash it down with.

 

* * *

 

All the same, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Renly had looked at Margaery. He couldn’t stop thinking about the cow-eyed gaze following her down the stairs, the way he’d brightened when she’d said it was her favourite song that he was playing, the way Loras’ stomach had filled with dread and tied itself into a pretzel shape as he realised that Renly’s eyes had passed straight over him to Margaery at his side, as though Loras had never existed. On the train back to London, he put his headphones on and plugged into his iPod, grateful for the mindless wash of music in his ears.

He hugged his sister and Sansa goodbye at Paddington and decided to walk back home, avoiding the tube. He needed to clear his mind anyway, and the fresh air would help; but he was too distracted to think about where he was going, and ended up walking the streets of London totally aimlessly until he heard music around the next corner and decided to take a look.

There, right by Bond Street station, stood Renly, guitar in hand, performing a Miike Snow song that Loras had heard constantly the summer before last when Margaery bought the CD and played the track on repeat for hours on end. As such, it had quickly become one of Loras’ most hated songs, and even the sound of Renly’s voice performing it wasn’t enough to redeem it. It might even have made it worse.

He threaded his way through the crowds, trying to get to the Underground entrance to get as far away from the situation as quickly as possible, but as the song finished, Renly looked up and caught his eye. Loras darted around the corner and flattened himself against a wall, hoping beyond hope that Renly hadn’t actually seen him. He heard the guitar start again a couple of moments later, an old Nancy Sinatra song he knew from his Grandma’s albums from the 60s, and sagged against the tiled station wall, letting out a deep breath.

_Bang bang, he shot me down… bang bang, I hit the ground… bang bang, that awful sound… bang bang, my baby shot me down…_

Loras bolted upright.

He peered around the entrance archway, eyes narrowed, and met Renly’s gaze. It was hard as flint, but his voice was sad, impassioned as he continued the song. Loras was determined not to read anything into it until Renly finished, put down his guitar, and beckoned him over. Despite Loras shaking his head, he was insistent, and when Renly actually walked over and grabbed Loras’ arm to take him aside, Loras shook him off angrily but still followed.

“Not with your girlfriend today?” Renly asked lightly.

“I–” Suddenly wrongfooted, all Loras could do was gape at him. “My girlfriend?”

“The girl you were with at the station on Saturday.”

“The girl I was – you mean my _sister_? Margaery?”

Now it was Renly’s turn to look confused. “That was your _sister_?”

“Yes! My girlfriend – ugh, Jesus. No. No. I’m… well, I’m as gay as… as…”

“As a Judy Garland float at a Pride festival?”

“That is an extremely gay image, so yes, that’ll do,” Loras said, unable to help the small grin. “Also, I’m impressed. That’s some old-school gay culture knowledge. Or so I hear. I can’t stand musicals or anything rainbow, my sister despairs of me.”

“If it explains anything, I am also as gay as a Judy Garland float at a Pride festival,” Renly said, “hence why I was giving your sister the evils on Saturday.”

“That’s your version of the evils?” Loras asked incredulously. “God, I definitely have to introduce you to Grandma for lessons.”

 

* * *

 

After packing Renly’s guitar away, they made their way to their usual Starbucks, where Satin greeted them casually and then did a double take to see them entering together. His eyebrows were climbing higher and higher towards his hairline, clearly intrigued, when Renly shook his head and just ordered them both black coffees, which he took back to a table by the window when they were served.

Loras sat down opposite him, took one of the steaming mugs, and fidgeted.

“So. You have a sister.”

“Yes. Well, and two brothers.”

“Me too. Thank God, there’s no way you’d mistake either of them for my boyfriend. One’s so fat I doubt he’d fit through the tube doors, and the other has the sort of face that wouldn’t look amiss on a lobster.” Renly took a deep draught of his coffee before cursing as he burnt his tongue, and Loras hid an unsympathetic smile of amusement behind his hand. “Christ, if anyone thought Robert – or worse, Stannis – was my boyfriend, I think I’d change my name and emigrate to Peru. Well, I’d vomit first, and then emigrate.” Renly shuddered theatrically.

“I felt pretty similar when you thought Margaery was my girlfriend. My twin, I get a lot, but I’ve never had her mistaken for a girlfriend before.”

“I don’t think you look _that_ alike,” Renly told him, frowning as he studied Loras’ face carefully before shaking his head. “Nope.”

“You’ve no idea how pleased that makes me,” Loras said, beaming.

 

* * *

 

The next time Loras came by the station, Renly had ditched the guitar and was opening a large black hard case carefully, surrounded by coins and bits and pieces of equipment. He went over to say a quick hello, and Renly beamed at him, his eyes sparkling.

“I’m taking requests today.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Uh huh. Satin’s already given me one. Says it’s for a friend.”

“I’m sure the friend won’t be disappointed,” Loras grinned, and dropped a couple of twenty pence pieces down by the rest of the coins at Renly’s feet. “Is that enough of a bribe to hear Toto by Africa?”

“That works,” Renly nodded as he finally wrestled the case open and dragged his new instrument out.

Loras took one look and turned, slowly, on his heel to stare hard at Satin through the window of the Starbucks café, who winked and blew an air kiss.

Renly squeezed his accordion experimentally before leaning towards his microphone. “Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.”


End file.
